


and the universe said you have played the game well

by nether1te



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, DSMP, Dream Smp, Dream Team SMP Roleplay (Video Blogging RPF), Pandora’s Vault, Roleplay, TOMMYS GONE CRABRAVE, Wilbur Soot-centric, no beta we die like tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nether1te/pseuds/nether1te
Summary: the universe was cruelshe took you awaya child, pure and freeshe blamed you for things you couldn’t controlshe sentenced you to dieand you pleaded innocenceand you cried outbut nobody cameyou sat aloneand the universe saw youshe took pity upon youand she cradled you in her armsand she whisperedyou are loved
Kudos: 10





	and the universe said you have played the game well

* * *

Wilbur woke up.

He pried open his eyes to a world bathed in sunlight. Flowers bloomed in luscious patches in the small room where he had died years previously. Birdsong filled his ears, and clouds dotted the cerulean sky.

Where was he?

He had grown used to the blank void of death, perhaps the closest thing to heaven he would ever know. To hearing distant echoes and the voices of those he had brought despair upon as they fought and laughed and cried. He was used to aimlessly playing solitaire for months with Schlatt and Mexican Dream- he wasn’t used to waking up anymore, especially not to the remnants of L’manburg.

He ran a hand over the crumbling stone. His fingers brushed briefly over the words he had scrawled on the walls, the anthem of a nation that no longer was, whispering the song quietly beneath his breath.

Wilbur could feel a rough scar over his stomach. He winced as he touched it, recalling the memory of Phil running a sword through his stomach.

He supposed, at first, that he was dreaming. And he wasn’t quite sure if it was a dream or a nightmare to be back in his home. But, as he left the room, his feet skidding against the stone and slipping in the damp grass, he felt that it wasn’t exactly a fantasy.

A soft breeze tickled his ear as he stood on the thin sheet of glass covering the hole, looking down upon the cavity that jutted to bedrock, scattered with rubble and debris and uncanny red vines that Wilbur couldn’t identify. He settled his gaze upon a battered flag that had fallen into the crater.

It was a beautiful day.

Wilbur smiled, something he hadn’t done in years, as he glanced over his shoulder at the prime path. The haphazardly-put-together bridge wobbled beneath his feet as he headed up the stairs, but he had gotten used to fearing for his life when he traveled down the walkway.

And he spotted it. Tommy’s house, an unappealing sort of thing, carved into a mound of earth and made of dirt and wood and stone. Tulips and alliums dotted the ground outside the abode-  _ A nice change of scenery _ , thought Wilbur- and the doors were, oddly, boarded up with planks of spruce.

Wilbur took the planks from the doors, resting his hand on a rusted bronze doorknob, ready to walk inside and surprise his brother, when a sharp voice cried out from behind him.

“Hey! What are you-” With a jump of surprise, Wilbur swiveled around to face Puffy, her eyes narrowed angrily at the man, holding a shimmering netherite rapier in one hand and a golden apple in the other. She wore an ink-black suit, a wither rose tucked neatly in her hair. 

Puffy’s eyes widened. She seemed to be temporarily paralysed with shock. The rapier fell to the ground at her feet. She was at a loss for words, opting to gape wordlessly at Wilbur’s presence.

“...Ghostbur?” she murmured eventually, though she knew very well that it was not the friendly phantom who stood before her.

“Hello,” he replied simply. “And no, I am not Ghostbur.”

He set the planks in the grass by Tommy’s home as a dumbfounded Puffy quickly picked up her sword, sheathing it safely by her side.

“You’re Puffy, right?” A brisk nod of conformation, and he continued. “Why were the doors boarded up?” She winced at his question, turning away, tears welling in her eyes.

“You don’t know, do you?” She murmured with a sigh.

Puffy extended a trembling hand. It was scarred and rough, like the gash on Wilbur’s chest. He grabbed onto her palm and she led him forward, down a more stable and repaired part of the wooden path.

The newly-resurrected man took in his surroundings as they walked, admiring the grand buildings that had been there before his death and studying the more contemporary edifices.

He asked quietly, “Where are we going?”

Puffy did not reply.

They walked through the community house- Wilbur noted to himself that it looked drastically different- and past Eret’s castle. As they exited the thick spruce forest, he spotted it.

A funeral.

An unmoving procession of people, all dressed in an assortment of black dresses and suits, stood around a casket made of finely-polished cherry wood. 

Wilbur felt his breath stop. He felt like he was dying again, drifting through the empty space that separated the living world from the afterlife.

“No, no, no,” he murmured under his breath. He dashed forward, pushing through the crowd of shocked mourners, holding a side of the coffin with his pale hands to steady himself.

He stared into the casket through eyes with which he wished he could not see.

The frail body of Wilbur’s almost-brother lay, battered and broken, in the casket. His bloodied face was covered in a shower of red and white and purple flowers. Wilbur could see unhealed gashes on Tommy’s neck. 

_ It can’t be. _

Thousands of incomprehensible thoughts swam through Wilbur’s head. They mixed in a whirlwind of grief and confusion and anger. He wanted to curl up in his own casket, to be draped in flowers as Tommy had, and to never wake again.

He wanted to be dead again.

Wilbur could hear his name whispered throughout the gathering crowd in addled tones. He could feel a hand, trying its best to be comforting, rest gently upon his shoulder. 

He clenched his fists, staring down at his trembling fingers, watching the blood drain from his knuckles as they turned white.

And he ran.

He wasn’t used to running from things either, but Wilbur felt himself beginning to run, to sprint away, unable to face the scene that was playing out before him. 

He ran for answers, infuriated and confused and faltering, unsure of what to do, opting to run, to storm off in search of some reason.

_ It wasn’t supposed to end like this. _

-

Sam told Wilbur the story.

The warden sat him down at a rickety table on the first floor of Tommy’s hotel, handing him a mug of steaming peppermint tea. Wilbur ran a trembling finger over the intricate patterns in the china as Sam explained how Tommy had died. Part of him wanted to shut out Sam’s words, to scream at him to shut up, but the other part wanted to listen. He wanted someone to blame.

Wilbur set down the mug with a soft  _ clink  _ as Sam talked, clenching his fists, feeling more infuriated than he had ever felt before. His hands were not shaking with grief now, but with anger.

He saw his already-pale knuckles going white, and quickly unclenched his hands, taking a deep, weary breath.

“So Dream did it?” he asked quietly, after Sam had finished. The warden nodded sadly. 

“I should’ve been there to stop him, it’s all my-”

With a sharp shake of his head, Wilbur cut off Sam. “It is  _ not  _ your fault,” he snapped in a slightly dismissive tone. “You weren’t the one who killed Tommy. Dream was. And Dream should be the one held accountable.”

A pained expression fell over Sam’s face, but he didn’t reply.

The two sat in silence, the sounds of crickets and songbirds and the soft flicker of torches filling the quiet. After many long moments, stirring his tea with a small silver spoon, Wilbur spoke up.

“I want to visit Dream.”

Sam’s face fell in horror. “No!” he shouted in reply, quickly looking down at his gloved hands. “I mean- it isn’t the greatest idea to visit him after… after what, um, happened.” 

The resurrected man fixed a cold gaze upon Sam, staring into the warden’s bright green eyes.

“You mentioned something called a revive book,” he said, slowly and simply. “That can bring people back to life, right? And only Dream can use it?

“I want to know why he brought me back.”

-

The mechanics of the prison amazed Wilbur.

He had never seen, let alone stepped foot, inside a build quite as intricate as Pandora’s Vault. Its complex architecture and near-perfect design took his breath away.

“How does this even work?” he inquired, astonished, as he stepping onto a blackstone pad that carried him safely across a pit of lava. Sam followed, giving Wilbur a small, brief nod of appreciation at Wilbur’s praise.

“Lots of redstone,” the warden replied simply, staring across the pit. Quickly he stepped off the pad, as it neared the other edge, flicking a lever and halting the machine.

He beckoned wordlessly for Wilbur to follow.

The two traipsed down a few more corridors. Eventually Sam stopped, clenching his trident tightly, his eyes narrowed and his hands trembling, before a wall of lava.

He flicked another lever, letting the lava fall slowly around a small obsidian box in the middle.

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, too, out of anger and despise as he looked Dream in his eyes- or, well, the eyes that were painted onto his white mask.

The imprisoned man wore an orange jumpsuit, and his hair was long and scruffy. He looked pitiful, but no amount of empathy surged through Wilbur at the sight of him.

Sam told Wilbur to step onto another blackstone pad. He rode over the lake of lava, bracing himself for whatever Dream had in store.

He looked on in horror at the scene before him as he stepped onto the sliver of obsidian before a netherite barrier. Blood dotted the floor and ran up one of the walls; it covered the front of Dream’s jumpsuit. Multiple frayed and yellowed pages from journals covered the floor. The only thing written on them were small, eerie smiles.

A purple substance dripped slowly from the obsidian, falling into Dream’s hair and rolling down his mask, giving the illusion that he was crying. 

Wilbur winced as a sharp, distant  _ click  _ informed him that the lava had been dropped back down. He quickly stepped away from the hot magma.

The netherite barrier dropped as well. Wilbur was taken aback by this, fearful of Dream now having free reign. But he stepped over the fallen barrier nevertheless, dragging his feet slowly and wearily.

He wanted to swing his fist, to punch Dream and watch his ever-smiling mask break in two, to look him in his real eyes and see his expression as Wilbur slammed his fist into his torso again and again, but he knew that would make him no better than Dream, and it would inevitably end up in him trapped in the same cell where Tommy had died.

“Hello, Wilbur!” Dream said in a cheerful tone, waving a hand caked with dried blood and spots of ink. He threw a quick glance at the golden clock poised on the wall.

Wilbur did not reply.

Slowly he walked into the cell, stepping intentionally on the pages scattered across the dark obsidian floor. 

“Why did you do it?”

He focused his gaze on a pool of blood in a corner of the room.

After a moment of quiet, Dream replied with a cocky smile.

“Do what?”

“Well-“ Wilbur wasn’t sure what he was asking about. Slowly, unsurely, he murmured, “Bring me back. Why did you bring me back?”

More brief silence, empty and cold and filling the space between the two men.

Eventually Dream spoke out again, breaking the silence with his low, gravelly voice, the voice that Wilbur despised so greatly.

“Because I know you’ll help me escape,” he responded smoothly.

Wilbur shook his head, finding the courage to look up at Dream, staring into the unmoving, soulless black eyes that were painted upon his mask. He struggled to find the right words to reply with.

“No-no, I don’t know what you mean, I won’t-“ He stopped, taking in a ragged breath.

Over and over again he told himself that Dream was crazed and manipulative and that he would never help the man who had brought pain to him and to everyone else he had met, but there was a doubt in the back of his mind, nagging his thoughts, that told him  _ yes, you will help him, because you want to and you know you do and you’ll end up helping him escape no matter what you say _ .

Dream stood. A pile of papers, adorned with the same smile he wore on his mask, fell to his feet in a spiral. 

He laughed.

“Oh, but you will,” Dream said, gathering his papers and throwing them into a chest. 

Wilbur stepped back.

He took a moment to gather himself, gritted his teeth.

“And why would you ever think that?” he replied, his voice quivering slightly, as coolly and collected as physically possible.

Another soft laugh echoed throughout the chamber, chilling and mortifying and wonderful in so many terrible ways.

“Because you owe me your life.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ignore the summary i wrote it at 5 in the morning  
> anyways. i hope u liked it!! \o/


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